Dealing
by Alipeeps
Summary: It's been a long day and House is tired.. too tired to keep fighting what a part of him wants... HouseCameron pairing. Rated M for adult themes and one or two naughty swearwords! My first ever Fanfic.. Chapter 3 now up Finally!
1. Chapter 1

**Dealing**

It's been a long day and he's tired, so incredibly tired.

He hadn't gone home the previous night, spending hours at his desk poring over textbooks and internet research, glaring at the whiteboard as though he could force it by sheer will alone to reveal the answers to the case. He'd slept eventually, stretching out on the lounger in a fitful doze, shifting restlessly as his relentless intellect refused to shut down, his dreams chasing around and around, still searching for an answer he knew was there, knew he should know. He'd woken up in pain, his damaged nerves singing with fire, and forced a couple of Vicodin past his sleep-parched throat before levering himself gingerly to his feet. Back to the desk. Back to work.

He'd taken his frustration out on his team as the morning passed without progress. He wasn't blind and he wasn't insensitive to the looks that passed between the three young doctors when he snapped at them but he couldn't bring himself to care what they thought of him. He had bigger things to worry about, like a patient slowly slipping away down in the ICU and a diagnosis that was proving frustratingly elusive.

The breakthrough had come in the late afternoon, a further symptom suddenly bringing a new focus to the previous test results, and as he'd stared at the whiteboard, cane twirling almost absently in his hands as his mind raced to make connections, he'd felt that slow surety in his soul – the knowledge that he had the answer, he'd solved the puzzle. His staff had been mystified when he'd turned without a word and walked out of the office, their questions chasing after him as they followed in his wake to the ICU. It was at times like these that he felt an acute impatience with a world that couldn't keep up with him, a helpless frustration with the need to explain to others what he saw so clearly, the connections which were so obvious to him and yet seemed to elude others.

The hours had passed in a blur of explanations, tests, treatments and more tests. Slowly but surely, the patient began to improve and he had allowed himself a momentary satisfaction at having succeeded, having beaten the puzzle, solved the equation, won the game one more time.

Now it's late – gone midnight – and the exhilaration has worn off. The adrenaline that has sustained him for the past 48 hours is gone and a wave of tiredness crashes over him. His leg thrums with pain, an ache that is slowly intensifying, and he fumbles for a pill with fingers suddenly clumsy with fatigue. He lets the Vicodin dissolve on his tongue, his mouth filling with the bitter, gritty taste as he waits for sweet numbness to steal over him and quench the burning fire in his thigh. He closes his eyes as he visualises the narcotic being absorbed into his bloodstream and slowly reaching to every fibre of him, every aching cell.

She finds him in his darkened office, the floor-length blinds drawn against the lights of the corridor. He is slouched in the chair at his desk, his eyes closed, head tipped back, hands resting lightly on his thighs. He doesn't react when the door quietly swings closed behind her. She steps forward hesitantly, unsure if he's asleep or just deep in thought. For a long moment she is frozen, lingering in indecision as she takes this chance to look, really look, at this man who raises such conflicting emotions in her. In his stillness, his face has relaxed and it makes her realise how constant pain has etched an almost permanent frown into those mobile features – a sight she is so accustomed to that she only notices it now it is gone.

A sound from the corridor brings her back to herself and she flushes dully to think what he would have said had he opened those piercing eyes to find her standing there like a fool, gazing at him. She speaks with a surety she doesn't feel, her voice jarringly loud in the silence of the glass-walled office.

"House".

He grimaces at the sound of his name, dragging a weary hand over his face before opening his eyes. She stands there just inside the door from the conference room, hesitancy written in every line of her body. He sighs. He's so tired, too tried to deal with this, with her, with anyone. His voice rasps in his throat, "It's late Cameron. Go home." He sees the conflict play across her face, her eyes showing a glint of the surprising stubbornness she could sometimes display. She is like a child at times, he thinks, wearing her heart on her sleeve, turning her open, trusting face to the world with no expectation of being hurt.

She takes a faltering step forward, her mouth already starting to form the dreaded question, the one everybody asks but never really wants to hear an honest answer to, the ever-looming, solicitous "Are you alright?" and he lashes out, not wanting to see the pity creep into her expressive eyes.

"I don't need you to mother me Cameron, I'm all grown up now – can dress myself and everything".

He sits up in his chair as he throws out his barbed comment, grabbing his cane from the desk and resting his weight heavily on it as he struggles slowly to his feet. The Vicodin hasn't kicked in fully yet and he can't suppress a small sound, the barest intake of breath as his leg protests the movement. He stands still for a moment, holding himself awkwardly, eyes closed, as he waits for the jolt of pain to fade, the sharp edges to blur and fade back to the burning background ache that is his constant companion.

He breathes out slowly as the pain recedes and opens his eyes to find Cameron standing right where he'd left her, her arms crossed defiantly as though resisting the temptation to reach out and try to help. "She's learning" he thinks bitterly.

When he moves slowly towards the conference room door she doesn't move. Arms still stubbornly crossed, she regards him with a mixture of frustration and anger as he deliberately looms over her, invading her personal space. It seems intimidation is not going to work on Allison Cameron today though as she holds her ground and tilts her chin up defiantly. He considers her for a long moment before leaning down slightly to emphasise his words. "It's generally considered impolite to impede cripples, Dr. Cameron" he jibes, gesturing with his chin at the door behind her.

Her mouth thins with frustration as she stubbornly stands her ground. The anger spills from her as she shifts her stance, her fists resting on her hips as she glares up at him. "Why do you do this!"

"Oh, do what!" His tone is a mixture of annoyance and careless disregard as he changes his mind, stepping back from her and moving to walk around her towards the main door out into the corridor. "The last thing I need is your.."

His words trail off in surprise as she grabs his right arm, halting his progress and causing him to stumble slightly as his own momentum spins him back towards her. He can't hide a grimace as the motion jars his leg but for once he doesn't see pity in her eyes, that awful, desperate sympathy for the poor cripple – no, her eyes are bright with anger.

"It's always the same with you," she grinds out. "You won't accept help from anyone, not even when you need it – hell, especially when you need it!"

He glares pointedly at her hand on his arm but she doesn't move it, choosing instead to step closer, forcing him to look up, to make eye contact, to acknowledge her. "Would it kill you to let someone help you – let someone _care_ just once!"

"Oh and you're going to be the one to solve all my troubles are you, _doctor_?" he spits out nastily. "You're gonna care for me and help me and be the one to fix poor old crippled Dr House!" Her anger has lit a matching flame inside him now and he welcomes the stab of pain as he steps awkwardly towards her, crowding in close, forcing her to step back. The warming spark of anger pushes back his tiredness and he keeps limping heavily forward until the glass door to the conference room chimes softly as she backs into it. He glares down at her, feeling the frustration well up in him. Dammit all, it he will not be pitied by her or by anyone.

She has to tilt her head back to look at him from this angle but she is still defiant – still worrying at this like a damn dog with a bone. "You think you know everything about everyone don't you House!" she challenges. "Think you got us all worked out?" She pushes angrily at his chest, feeling trapped, as she knows he damn well intended.

"I don't want to _fix_ you!" she almost shouts.

Her gaze is still locked with his, her hand braced against his chest and her eyes bright with anger. For a moment he is entranced – she is so alive, so vibrant, so much of everything that he can no longer have, that he shouldn't, _doesn't_ want in his safe, compartmentalised life. His mouth twists bitterly. "Then what _do_ you want Cameron?" he demands.

He moves closer, pressing her against the door, his anger turning to bitterness and self-loathing as he ignores her attempts to push him away. "You want to have your wicked way with me, is that it?" He taunts her. "Getting it on with a cripple is a turn on for you? Is that why you married your husband? You get a thrill out of the pity fuck?"

He knows he's pushed her too far, knows it and doesn't care anymore. His anger has burned out and he is tired, physically and emotionally, too tired to care, too tired to deal with this, too tired to do anything but lash out, hurt, wound – make her leave him the hell alone. He's relieved when she slaps him, welcoming the stinging impact as his head is rocked to the side.

Her voice is surprisingly quiet but she can pack a whole lot of fury into five whispered words. "You son of a bitch".

He smiles bitterly, his point made, and shifts his stance to lean back from her. Before he can take a step, her hand on his chest bunches into a fist around a handful of shirt and she pulls hard, jerking him off balance. He throws out a hand to catch himself, his surprise overwhelmed by fear – his constant fear of falling, of being helpless. His left hand slams against the glass door and it judders in its frame as he finds himself leaning over her once more. Only this time it is he who is off-balance, both figuratively and literally, his weight balanced precariously between an outstretched arm and his one good leg. Her hand is still gathered in his clothing, holding him close.

"The all-knowing Dr Gregory House," she mocks him bitterly. There is a frozen moment where all he can do is stare down at her. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me." she tells him and she reaches up and presses her lips to his.

Her lips are warm and soft and for a moment he is unable to think, capable only of feeling, of processing the sensation of her lips moving against his. Before his mind can regain its footing, his body reacts instinctively and he responds to her kiss, unconsciously leaning further into this odd embrace, his lips moving hungrily against hers. He is dimly aware of her hand at the base of his skull, her fingertips tangling in his hair, her firm pressure pulling his head down, deepening the kiss. With a small sigh her lips part and he finds himself tasting her, his tongue dancing lightly against hers.

The rational, logical part of his brain is struggling valiantly for supremacy, reminding him that this is the last thing he needs and everything he has tried to avoid, but it is drowned out in the intoxicating roar of long-suppressed desire. A more instinctive part of his brain has taken control and it's all he can do not to ravish her right here and now. Her scent overwhelms him and his mind reels as she clings to him, her small, lithe body pressed between him and the cold, hard glass of the door.

Sensation overwhelms him – he can feel every inch of her pressed against him, her small breasts brushing against his chest, her flat belly taut against his abdomen. She is hot fire running through his veins, wanton and wild, burning him, consuming rational thought and leaving desire stirring in its wake.

The need for air forces him to break off from their kiss and they stand frozen in place, each suddenly aware of the ragged sound of their breathing in silence of the office, the reality of their situation intruding on them once again.

She feels his body tense against hers and knows what is coming and she refuses to let go even as she feels him try to regain his balance and step away. For a moment he has dropped his defences and let her in and now he doesn't know how to deal with that, with her, and he'll try to backtrack, to push her away again.

He tries to use the hand still braced against the glass door to right his balance but Cameron's arm around his neck keeps his weight pulled forward. He can't use his right hand without letting go of the cane and without the cane he's not steady enough to rebalance and move away. He can't bring himself to look at her but he knows she can hear the frustration in his voice, "Cameron…"

"No" she interrupts him.

"You're not going to run away from this House." There is steel in her voice as she orders him, "Look at me." He hesitates and she snaps, " Dammit House, look at me."

His eyes meet hers reluctantly. Her gaze is clear and steady, unflinching, and for a heart-stopping moment he realises that she's not going to give up, not going to let him chase her away with his anger and his scorn. She regards him calmly as she tells him, "I wanted this. _You_ wanted this – and we're going to have to deal with that."

Before he can argue she pulls his lips down to hers and as he tastes her he lets himself forget for a moment about the future, about why he shouldn't be doing this, about having to deal with anything but here and now.

_End of Chapter 1 _

Hope you enjoyed reading my first ever fanfic – I'm hoping to continue this story as I think it's interesting to try and visualise how a HouseCameron relationship could realistically happen. All reviews and/or constructive criticism welcomed – let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's taken quite a while to update this fic and for that I apologise. I've been busy updating another ongoing fic plus I really wanted to take my time with this one and get it right. HouseCameron is a tough relationship to write – they are complicated, difficult people and having them falling into each other's arms and finding true love is just not believable for me. I want to write a believable idea of how this relationship could progress and it takes time and sometimes it just goes its own way! Anyhow, here is chapter 2… and oh yes, if you're wondering, chapter 3 is gonna get smutty… grin_

* * *

**Dealing - Chapter 2**

It's his leg – his damned useless leg – that pushes them apart.

Time has lost all meaning and he has no idea how long they've been stood this way, his weight pressing her up against the glass door, the two of them locked in this unbalanced embrace, exploring and tasting each other with a growing hunger that wipes rational thought from his mind. His leg though, can't forget. He's dimly aware of fatigue beginning to tremble his muscles and then pain rears its familiar, ugly head, bringing a gasp to his lips – a sharp inhalation of stolen air that drags her mouth from his, her brow furrowing in concern.

"House?"

He can't help a grimace, can't hide his weakness, and pain and frustration combine to dampen his ardour, bringing him back to earth with a bump. All the usual doubts and fears rush back to shore on that tide of pain and he turns his face from her as he struggles to right himself, pre-empting the disappointment he has taught himself to expect. They talk over each other, words blurting out in a jumble, her voice low and cautious, his tight with tension:

"Are you..?"

"I need to…"

She is all concern and understanding and, if she notices his refusal to look her in the eye, she doesn't refer to it as her small hands on his chest help push his weight backwards until he can balance himself more steadily between the cane and his good leg. He leans heavily on the cane, tremors shaking his remaining thigh muscles, and her hands feel warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. He doesn't feel any more in control of himself, of his body, standing upright than he did leaning precariously against the office door. She is a lead weight pulling him off balance, tilting his comfortable world, and this sensation of vertigo frightens him.

They don't speak a word but she seems to know what he is thinking, what he wants, and her warm hands stay with him, moving to his arm and back as she helps him stiffly turn and stumble with careful, excruciating steps to his desk. As he leans with relief against the hard edge of the desk, he wonders if she sees his right leg physically shudder and twitch when relieved of his weight. He stares at the floor and asks himself if he cares if she saw. His world has shifted and a part of him knows that things can never be the same now. He can't decide how to feel about that other than tired and hopeless. He's done everything he swore to himself he wouldn't and now she's seen all his weaknesses, physical and metaphorical, and he almost hates himself for that. He reaches blindly in his pocket for his faithful Vicodin, the familiar rattle of the bottle a comfort in itself, promising numbness from pain, numbness from the world. Closing his eyes as he tips his head back to swallow the bitter pill, he wonders how long he'll need to ignore her before she leaves him alone.

The silence lasts months, endless years, and he feels her eyes on him as though her gaze were able to lights flames along his skin. He stays perched on the edge of the desk, staring moodily at the floor, even after he hears the door to the conference room open and swing closed behind her.

* * *

He won't look at her but she can see his pain in the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his posture, the way he holds himself so carefully, so controlled. She sees more than he realises. She can see him withdraw as the familiar pain reminds him of who he is, of the boundaries he has set on his life. He is rebuilding walls even as she watches – and there is nothing she can do to prevent it.

She is unwilling to let go; having once touched the fire and warmth he hides behind those carefully constructed walls, she hates to be pushed aside into the cold again. She holds on to him physically even as he withdraws emotionally, warming her hands at the meagre flame of continued contact. She guides his awkward, shaky steps towards the desk, feeling the tension in his arms and back even through the lightest touch.

His relief is evident as he rests his weight on the desk, overtaxed muscles trembling and jerking his leg even as he stretches it out in front of him. His face is turned from her and she lets her hands fall away, breaking that last remaining connection between them as he fumbles the pill bottle from his jacket pocket. When he stretches his long neck to swallow, his eyes are stubbornly closed, pain pinching at the angles of his face.

She remembers that last time they stood here like this – she baring her soul in his living room.. and he unable to meet her gaze, staring at the floor until she left. In some ways it seems a metaphor for their whole relationship; she spends her time watching from afar, so close to what she wants but unable to touch; he looking anywhere but at her, refusing to see, stubbornly closing his eyes so as not to have to deal with what lay before him.

The difference now though is that she knows what lies hidden behind those downcast eyes. Just this once, his defences had crumbled and, much as he might rebuild them, shut her out again, she had caught a glimpse of what lay beneath. No matter how hard he tried to deny what had happened, to push her away, she knew now that the walls could be breached.

So she stands there, within touching distance and a million miles away all at the same time. He keeps his gaze stubbornly on the floor, shutting her out physically and emotionally. She wonders what he's thinking. Does out of sight equate to out of mind for the great Dr House? He is waiting, she realises. Waiting for her to walk away.

She obliges.

She lets the door to the conference room swing closed behind her and for a moment she sags against it, the breath escaping her in a shuddering sigh that is equal parts frustration and exhilaration. The glass is cool against her shoulders and she lets her head tip back, her eyes closing as remembered sensation runs through her.. the memory of his weight pressing against her, pinning her to the chill of the glass, his lips warm on hers.

She shakes off the recollection, pressing her hands to her face for a moment, steeling her resolve. When she looks back over her shoulder he is frozen in place, perched on the edge of his desk, long legs stretched out before him. His head is bowed as he stares unseeingly at the office floor. She bites her lip, once again reduced to watching him through glass walls, as he broods in silence. The thought only serves to crystallise her intention.

She is characteristically brisk and efficient in her movements, tidying up the papers and journals on her desk, shutting down the computer, throwing her bag over one shoulder as she grabs her coat. She comes to a halt with her hand on the office door and finds he hasn't moved from where she left him. Pain still haunts his face and he looks…tired. Defeated. She knows him better than he thinks – better than he seems to think he knows her. She can't, she won't, leave him like this. He'll brood and he'll pick and pick until he's ripped the scab off of whatever he's feeling and he's twisted this into something it was never meant to be. She's not going to let him do this to himself – and to her.

* * *

He doesn't look up when he hears the door push open again. If he had the energy he'd sigh but he feels like he's sinking, tiredness makes him feel heavy; she makes him feel tired.. and old. He remembers the look on her face as she clung to him, pulling his weight against her, skewing his balance and his perception, that look right before she.. before they.. He pushes those thoughts away, reminding himself of all the reasons why none of this should have happened. Why _he_ shouldn't have let this happen.

But his own thoughts betray him - he can't help but remember that look on her face, the fierceness in her eyes, and how he'd thought to himself right then that she wasn't going to let go, wasn't going to back away from this. He wishes he could decide how that made him feel but right now numbness seems preferable to feeling. If he can just avoid thinking – about all of this, about anything – until he can get home and crack open a bottle of whiskey… maybe an extra Vicodin or two would let him sleep and he could hope this had all been a dream.

He is aware of her without wanting to be – his senses seem to be attuned to her and he feels her approach, as though the warmth of her lithe body could somehow reach across the room to heat his blood and fire his senses. She stands before him, close enough to touch, and he imagines that he can hear the breath whispering from between her lips. A part of him wants nothing more than to reach out to that fire, to feel her warmth once more, press his lips against hers and steal that soft breath from her body. But he knows only too well that fire can burn – and so he sits gingerly upon the desk, thinking longingly of the medicated numbness that usually serves him so well, and stares forlornly at her ridiculous, high-heeled pumps.

A small voice at the back of his mind tells him, "She's not just going to let this go."

He is startled when she reaches out to him, his peripheral vision catching the movement, instinctive reaction jerking his head up and back as she shakes her hand teasingly in front of his nose, the jingling noise explained as he belatedly becomes aware of the car keys in her hand. He feels punch-drunk, unsure of himself, and for once he can't think of an answer when she says calmly, "Come on. I'm driving you home."

It takes him a moment to remember that he doesn't need her pity, not hers or anyone else's, but his spite lacks it's usual fire and his "I don't need you fussing after me, Dr Cameron." sounds lacklustre and formulaic, even to his own ears. Sarcasm by numbers. He sighs.

He risks a glance at her face and finds steel in her gaze. He tries for strength, grasps at conviction, tells her shortly, "I'm fine."

But the heat has slipped from his words, his fury has all burned out. She had set him ablaze with her angry words, stoked the fires with that damn stubborn nature of hers, and then she had pulled him to her, pressing his body into hers, and stolen the heat and warmth from him, breathed his passion out through his lips and left him cold and empty and drained.

She's not going to let this go.

Her voice brooks no disagreement as she steps around him to grab his rucksack.

"You're exhausted and you're in pain," she lectures him, "I doubt you've eaten in at least 10 hours and you've only just taken your Vicodin – you're in no state to drive."

He's not too exhausted to resent her treating him like some idiot clinic patient and he tells her so, "Way to state the obvious, Cameron. Believe it or not, I went to medical school too.."

She throws him a look that speaks volumes, and for a moment he is left to wonder how a woman 20 years his junior can leave him feeling like a recalcitrant child, before her face slips into a sly smile.

"Really, Dr House? I'd never have guessed…"

Teasing him. She's damn well teasing him. Her lightning changes of mood trip him up and he loses the thread of his argument. He lets her bully him into motion, hauling himself up from the desk with a grimace of pain, and looks up defiantly to see she has walked off ahead of him, taking his rucksack with her, leaving him to his private pain, boldly expecting him to just trail along after her. To his surprise, he does.

The walk to the car park exhausts him and in the dark stillness of the car they are silent, she concentrating on her driving, he slumped in the passenger seat, a fine sheen of sweat drying on his forehead as his leg amplifies every imperfection in the road surface. Even through the fatigue and the constant thrum of pain, he is aware of her movements next to him. It feels intimate, oddly comforting, sitting so close beside her in the cramped confines of the vehicle, headlights cutting a swathe through the darkness, the road humming by beneath them. The cessation of movement jerks him from a half-doze and he fumbles for his cane, his fingers brushing hers as she puts the car in park. Her face is unreadable in the dark and then the latch clicks and she is gone.

He exits the car clumsily and is relieved to not find her hovering, offering assistance. She is already unlocking his front door, his house keys the fruits of her search through his rucksack, and he can't decide whether to be amused, annoyed or impressed at her taking liberties with his belongings. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell her he doesn't need walking to the door like a prom date when she pushes the door open and casually steps inside, leaving him to stagger after her, unsure whether to be shocked or indignant as the lights flicker to life in his living room.

When he steps inside he sees his rucksack abandoned beside the piano, her jacket and bag tossed on the floor alongside. The door shuts behind him and he turns to find her leaning against it, her face serious. He feels uncomfortable now; the journey is over and there's nowhere left to go – and all that remains is him, and her, standing here in this room.

He breaks the silence, habitual sarcasm coming to the rescue.

"I'd invite you in but Thursday is hooker night, as I'm sure you know. Gonna be a bit busy…"

He glares at her, suddenly aware of his pulse thundering in his ears, realising too late that sexual innuendo was a bad idea given the circumstances. The air feels charged with tension, a burgeoning electricity that pushes back his exhaustion and sets his nerves tingling. He stubbornly digs his heels in, his defiant gaze daring her to break that awkward silence, to start the conversation she knows he doesn't want to have. She doesn't move, doesn't speak. She leans against the door, regarding him calmly. She is mere feet away. Close enough for him to reach out and touch her, to close the distance between them. He scowls. He won't do it.

She will.

She steps forward without a word and he can't help but take a step back, a frown creasing his face when he sees her slight smile at his reaction. He brazenly holds his ground as she invades his body space, using his own tricks against him, unsettling him, sending his pulse soaring without even touching him. It seems she can unbalance him with a look. For once he can't look away, can't pull his gaze from hers and he feels like he's falling whilst standing still, the ground seeming to tilt away beneath his feet. His hand tightens on his cane. The heat and warmth of her pull at him, drawing him into the gravity well of her orbit and the concept of event horizon flits through his mind even as her hand brushes his cheek and he realises he is lost.

Her voice is low and vibrant, thrilling the blood in his veins, making him realise suddenly that he really doesn't know her at all.

"I think it's your turn," she tells him.

She steps closer and this time he does step back, fighting a rearguard action that he secretly knows is already lost. He's never one to go down without a fight though.

"My turn for what?" He's surprised to find a tremor in his voice as she backs him up another step.

She doesn't answer, and it's not until 3 more stumbling paces bring him bumping up against the door, his cane clattering against the solid wood, that he realises how completely she's outmanoeuvred him.

Her smile is light and teasing but there is no levity in her eyes as she tells him, "Your turn to be pressed up against the door."

Her gaze is locked with his as she very deliberately leans into him, her slight weight pinning him as surely as if she had chained him in place. She is warm and soft and her heat spills through him, flaring in his veins. He can't think straight, can't envision anything beyond the need to cling to that warmth. He tries to tell himself all the reasons why he shouldn't let this happen, tries to tell her.

"I can't.."

She interrupts him by the simple expedient of sliding her body along his as she reaches a hand up to curl around his neck. His words die on a hitched intake of breath.

"Shut up, House." she whispers and she pulls his lips down to meet hers.

* * *

TBC…. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Finally - a long, long, long-overdue update to this story. Sincere apologies for making you wait so long but this has been an utter bear of a chapter to write; in terms of trying to keep the characters "in character" in a somewhat AU situation and also in terms of my first real foray into erotic fiction! As you can see, it has turned into a mammoth chapter in the process!_

_I've finally wrestled this into submission over the course of an all-night writing session and this is the result. I hope you enjoy._

_Please review and give me your thoughts on this - I'm still unsure as to how I feel about this chapter, after struggling so to get it written, so any feedback gratefully received._

_**WARNING: This chapter deals graphically with a sexual situation. If you don't want to read that kind of stuff then STOP HERE!** :)_

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**Dealing – Chapter 3**

She feels so warm, her body pressed against his, her tongue tasting him, her hand at the base of his skull pulling him down to her. She feels warm and soft and.. right. No matter how much he tells himself that this is wrong, that he doesn't want this, somehow it all feels right. He can't hold back a groan as she clings to him, caresses him, her hand moving boldly across his chest, her thumb brushing his nipple through the thin cloth of his t-shirt. He feels almost dizzy as the blood rushes in his veins. He can feel himself growing hard, knows she must feel it too, pressed against him as she is. He shudders.

He can't think clearly. He is lost in her, tangled in her, tasting her, feeling her. The heat in his veins has washed away fatigue, uncertainty and higher cognitive function. It's all he can do to process sensation – and she feels amazing.

Her slim body is leaned up against him, her thighs brushing his, her small, firm breasts pressed to his chest, one long slender arm curled around his neck, bending him forward, holding his lips to hers as she tastes him, stealing the very breath from his body. He can feel the solid wood of the door pressed against his spine, the pressure of his fingers wrapped in a death grip around the handle of his cane. Vicodin sings through his nervous system and for a few blessed moments he feels no pain – all he can feel is her; the warmth of her body, the soft touch of her lips against his.

He'd been powerless to resist as she'd reached up and captured his mouth, effectively achieving a long-held desire of many PPTH staff – shutting up Dr Gregory House. His lips had parted instinctively beneath hers, and he can only attribute it to muscle memory, or some kind of bizarre Pavlovian response; this is the third time they've kissed and he can only wonder at how she's managed to so thoroughly bypass his every defence, his body betraying his intellect at her merest touch. She slides her tongue past his lips, bites at his lower lip, and he can only groan. Their kiss is heated, hungry, months of tension and attraction distilled into this one moment.

His hand has moved of its own volition to the small of her back, holding her against him as she plunders his mouth. He drinks in the taste, the smell, the feel of her and a small part of his brain realises that he has wanted this, just this, for the longest time. His hand moves restlessly, caressing her through the soft fabric of her blouse, sliding down her spine and slipping under the hem to trail his fingers lightly across her bare skin. She lets out the smallest of moans, her hot breath passing from her lips to his, and the sound bypasses his brain and travels straight to his groin. He shudders, heat coursing through him, and suddenly it is he who is pushing the pace, not just responding to her kiss, but controlling the embrace, claiming her lips with his, tilting her head back to taste the skin at the side of her neck.

She arches against him, her hips pressing against his as she leans back, his hand splayed against the warm skin of her back, holding her tight to him as he kisses his way down her neck. Her breathing hitches as he nips gently at the base of her throat. Her skin is warm and soft under his lips, he can feel her pulse thundering under the skin. She tastes of rain and warmth and need. His hand slides along the silken skin of her back, his thumb brushing tantalisingly up her spine as he pulls her against him, catching her lower lip between his teeth, sliding his tongue along hers.

His doubts are forgotten, consumed in the fire of arousal, the flood of heat that her touch ignites in him. He wonders if he's ever wanted anything, anyone, this much. Her hands have slipped under his shirt, under his t-shirt, and her fingers are splayed across his shoulders, skin against skin, holding him to her.

It seems like they've been pressed up against the door for an eternity, stealing rapid breaths between long, heated kisses, when she suddenly straightens, her hands on his hips as she pushes her body away from him. Her lips linger on his for a long moment, and then she is gone, slipping from his grasp, leaving him suddenly cold.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, to kick in his brain into gear. He's off-balance, out of his element, and he can't keep up with her. He starts to get annoyed with himself for letting her be the one in control.

She walks through his apartment as though she owns the place and disappears down the corridor towards his bedroom. By the time he's found his balance enough to catch up to her, she's standing in his room, hands on hips as she surveys her surroundings. He follows her gaze across the piles of books on the bedside cabinet, the clothes thrown haphazardly across a chair, the unmade bed, watching her try to fit the information into the puzzle that is Dr House. He feels like he's being psycho-analysed by virtue of his interior decoration decisions and it bugs him. He leans casually in the doorway, not bothering to hide the sharp note of sarcasm in his voice.

"See anything you like?"

She turns around with a tiny smile on her lips and faces him boldly, her eyes meeting his with that same spark of defiance that started this whole mess. "Maybe," she teases.

He's not used to this Cameron; this bold, flirtatious Cameron. It's something of a shock to him to realise that he'd thought he had her figured out, just like the rest of them - knew how she would react, knew what buttons to press and when – and that he'd gotten it wrong. Somewhere, somehow, he'd missed something… and now he didn't know what to expect from her. He hates feeling out of control and his instinct is to take back that control, to push some more buttons until he has her worked out.

He pushes off from the doorway, takes a step forward to loom over her, leaning heavily on his cane as he watches her face tilt back to look up at him. That little smile is still on her lips.

"So," he says casually, his tone deceptively light, "sleeping with the boss, huh? Interesting career choice. Hope you're not hoping to get a raise out of it or anything like that 'cause I'm not into favouritism.."

Her only response is that damned, irritating smile. If anything, it gets bigger. He's pushing the wrong buttons. He glares down at her in frustration, his heartbeat picking up a pace as he can't help noticing the pale, smooth skin of her neck as she tips her head back. Desire still smoulders under his irritation and the memory of the taste of that neck, the feel of the soft, smooth skin under his lips, shoots heat straight to his groin.

He scowls, annoyed at himself more than her. He tries to remind himself of all the many reasons why this is an incredibly bad idea.

"This is a.."

"A bad idea. So you keep saying," she interrupts him, the expression on her face suddenly serious. Her eyes meet his, as open and honest as ever, and in them he sees no pity, no unwanted sympathy, only desire. "For once in your life, House, just stop trying to analyse everything."

The heat in her gaze shocks him and the knowledge that she wants him just as much as he wants her sends a shiver down his spine and, for once in his life, he does as he's told, ignoring the bitter voice in his head that warns him how this is all going to end and bending his head to claim her lips.

* * *

Once House has made up his mind, he can be implacable and in this he is no different. His mouth is hot and demanding, parting her lips to steal her breath, tongues meeting and tasting. She meets him breath for breath, kiss for kiss, the thrumming of the blood in her veins pounding in her ears. She lets her eyes close, losing herself in sensation; the warm, firm touch of his lips on hers, the taste of him on her tongue, the faint rasp of stubble against her cheek. She's vaguely aware that his hand is twisting loosely in her hair, holding her to him as he tastes her. She realises belatedly that she's won the battle; House has reached a decision, his course of action decided. A thrill runs through her at the thought of what that means, desire pooling hot and low in her belly.

He leans into her, his weight resting unevenly between his cane and his good leg. She hangs on to his shoulders for balance, feeling her world tilting beneath her feet, and is aware of the shifting of muscles under his skin as he shifts his weight more onto the cane and takes a step forward, nudging her into a matching, instinctive step backwards. He is in control now and she the one off-balance as he nudges her back again. Step. And another lurching step. All the while his lips on hers, tasting and sucking and stealing the breath from her. Another step. She thinks she feels him grin against her lips as he takes one more step and suddenly her legs bump up against the edge of the mattress. He reaches around her, never breaking their kiss, to casually toss the cane onto the bed.

She lets him control the pace, her breath hitching against his lips as his hands slide up under her blouse, his fingertips brushing against her skin as he pushes the thin fabric up, baring her midriff to the cool air of the room. He breaks away from their kisses as he lifts the blouse up and over her head; operating on pure instinct, she lifts her arms wordlessly. He tosses the garment aside carelessly and his hands are roaming across the bare skin of her back as he pulls her to him, rejoining their lips hungrily. He is surprisingly gentle. There is heat and passion in his kisses, in the slow drag of his thumb across her sensitive skin, but there is also tenderness, a delicacy to his touch.

She lets her hands roam across his back, feeling the tension in muscles accustomed to the strain of supporting his bodyweight every day. She runs her hands down his spine, swallowing his hum of approval, and slips them under his t-shirt, feeling warm skin over taut muscles. He tastes of whiskey and Vicodin and everything that is forbidden and dangerous. It's intoxicating. She moans against his lips as his hand brushes gently against her breast, teasing her with a feather-like touch before returning to gently cup her in his palm, and leans into him as he drags a thumb across her nipple, pressing the delicate lace against her sensitised skin.

Her own hands roam across his chest, lifting the fabric of his t-shirt as she runs her fingers across muscle and skin. He tips his head back, breathing out a shaky sigh, as she slides her palm slowly across his nipple. She presses her mouth to the long column of his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, feeling his pulse flutter beneath her lips. He pulls back from her and, in a single, impatient move, he pulls both t-shirt and shirt over his head, dropping them to the floor as he reaches for her.

He is glorious; slim but muscular, his jeans riding low on his hips. She clings to him as he captures her mouth once more, her hands roaming his back and chest even as he wraps his arms around her, trailing teasing fingers up and down her spine. His tongue slides against hers, tasting her, tormenting her. She is breathless when they finally pull apart. His eyes are hot, gleaming with desire as he takes in the sight of her and she wonders how she must look to him, her hair all mussed, lips swollen from his kisses, her small breasts, nipples tight with anticipation, yearning for his touch. There is something dangerous about the smile that curves his lips but she knows him too well and she can also see the tightness around his eyes, the signs of pain. Standing without the cane puts added strain on his leg, on the muscles in his back and pelvis. She takes the decision for him and gives him a wicked smile as she leans backwards, pulling him with her. She pulls him off-balance, forcing him to let go or fall with her and, at the last minute, he releases her, letting her fall backwards onto the bed, her hair splaying out around her face as she grins up at him. She picks up the cane and casually tosses it away, hearing it clatter noisily across the polished wooden floor.

He stands beside the bed and looks at her for a long, silent moment and she almost starts to feel self-conscious, sprawled on his bed in pants and a lacy bra, wanton and wicked. He tilts his head in that considering way of his and then he surprises her by turning away. She sits up, a frown creasing her face, but before she can speak he has limped to the light-switch beside the bed and the room is plunged into darkness. She feels the mattress dip slightly as he joins her on the bed, a two-stage movement and she can envision him using his hands to swing his damaged leg up onto the mattress. She is suddenly glad of the cover of darkness, grateful for the discretion it affords him. She couldn't care less about his leg, about his disability, but she knows equally that House will never believe that and she is willing to go along with whatever makes him more comfortable. She will take whatever he is willing to give her. She climbs to her knees and crawls across the bed to meet him, finding him by touch, by some unerring instinct that leads her straight to him.

Her eyes begin to adjust to the dark, the faintest hint of moonlight filtering into the room to shine on bare skin. He is sitting up on the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him and she notes vaguely that he has toed off his sneakers and socks, leaving his feet bare. She leans toward, kneeling on all fours beside him, to press her lips to his. He opens to her immediately and she slides her tongue along his, sucking his lower lip into her mouth, tasting him, teasing him. His hands come up to stroke along her flanks and she shivers at his touch.

With a hand on his shoulder she pushes him down onto the mattress and is mildly astonished when he simply complies, his lips never leaving hers as he pulls her down with him. He skims his hands up and down her sides as she leans over him, her hair brushing across his face as they kiss deeply, hotly. His fingers are nimble, gentle, as they slide up her back and deftly unfasten her bra. She pulls away from him, sitting back as she slides the straps from her arms and throws the discarded garment over her shoulder. His eyes are huge in the moonlight, his face serious as his gaze takes all of her in, lingering on the high, pert breasts exposed to his view. She leans into him slowly, watching his face, his reaction, as she offers herself to him. His first touch is almost hesitant, with anyone else she would have said shy, as he cups her breasts gently. She moans as his thumbs drag across her proud nipples and she can't help arching her back, pushing her flesh more firmly into his grip.

His arm slips around her back and he pulls her down to him, pressing her bare skin against his, the sparse hair on his chest brushing her nipples. His lips move as he claims her mouth for a kiss and she could have sworn her murmured her name. Their touches are urgent now, hands roaming across flesh and fabric, and she boldly runs her hand up his left leg, feeling the strength of muscles through denim, and across, cupping him in her palm. He bulges against the fabric of his jeans, hot and pulsing under her touch. She pulls a groan from him as she drags her palm across the evidence of his desire.

They're wearing far too many clothes.

She fumbles with the zipper on his jeans. He lets her, breathing heavily, waits until she's got it undone and then suddenly he rolls, taking her with him, and she finds herself on her back, he looming over her in the moonlit darkness. No words are spoken, none are needed, as he lowers his head to her neck, kissing his way down her throat, her breath catching in her throat as he gently bites at the juncture of neck and collarbone. His breath is warm against her skin, his stubble rasping as he lays kisses down along her collarbone and lower, lower. She squirms as he teases her, breathing hotly on her nipple, hovering just over the tight flesh but not touching. She lifts her head to see him watching her, a sly smile on his face, and then he lashes his tongue across her hot flesh and she is lost, throwing her head back as he kisses and sucks, pulling at her aching nipple, before moving on, laying a trail of wet kisses across her chest to claim its companion, branding it with his hot breath, his oh, so clever mouth.

He runs his tongue down her midriff and lays a kiss on her belly-button and she feels his fingers deftly unfasten her pants. At his urging, she lifts her hips and he slides the fabric down over her legs; she kicks out with her feet to shake the pants free and they sail into the air. She has no idea where they land and she really doesn't care. He moves back up the bed now, laying carefully down beside her. She pulls him to her for a hot, desperate kiss, shivers running through her as his hand smooths over her skin, slipping low across her belly, running a teasing finger under the waistband of her panties.

She never would have guessed that House would be such a tease. He ekes out the torment, trailing feather-light touches across her belly, along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, forever circling but never touching the burning heat of her. She is whimpering by the time he carefully slides her panties down, laying a trail of soft kisses along her leg as he discards the wisp of lace. He slides his tongue into her mouth just as his dips his finger into her wet, hot core, swallowing her moan of pleasure, matching it with a groan that speaks of his own growing need. Somehow she had always known it would be like this, that his long, clever fingers would bring a gasp to her lips, leave her trembling on the very edge of release. She wants it so badly, so, so badly.. but not like this. She wants all of him; wants to feel him inside her when she comes.

"No," she gasps out the word, stilling those devilish fingers with her own hand.

He is breathing heavily too, a muttered curse escaping him as she presses a hand against the evidence of his need for her.

"I want you," she tells him boldly.

Much as she wants to touch him, to undress him as he did her, she holds back, gives him room to make his own decision. If she could only make him understand, she doesn't care about the damn leg, about the scar, about any of that. She admits to herself a certain curiosity, a desire to see just what it is that he feels so self-conscious about, but what he cannot understand or accept is that she would be attracted to him, would _be_ with him, whether his thigh were smooth or scarred, damaged or whole. If she thought he would let her, she would prove it to him, would rain down upon that scarred flesh the same kisses and caresses she has lavished on his lips, his chest, his throat. But she knows he would back away if she even tried; this is all too new, too fragile, and she knows full well it will shatter if she pushes too hard.

So she lies in the darkness and lets him remove his jeans himself; she keeps her eyes on his face, her hands on his chest as he lays back down beside her, skin to skin.

His breath is hot against her lips as they kiss deeply, her hands running over his warm skin, bringing a groan to his lips as she wraps a hand around him. He is steel sheathed in silk, hot and pulsing under her fingers. She slides her hand up and down the length of him and he cries out.

"This is gonna be over real quick if you keep doing that.." His voice is hoarse, his ever-present dry humour bringing a smile to her lips.

"Can't have that," she murmurs, smiling wickedly as she gives him one last long stroke before relinquishing him, thrilling to the sound of his gasp for breath.

She moves over him carefully, making sure not to touch his damaged thigh, settling herself astride him, his hips between her legs, her arms braced beside his head. Her long hair swings loosely, brushing his chest as he runs his hands up her thighs, along her flanks to cup her firm breasts. She arches into his touch, brushing herself teasingly across the tip of his straining cock.

His voice is tight with need as his hands tighten on her hips, stilling her movements. "Top drawer," he grinds out and she nods, leaning across him, feeling his hands smoothing over her hips to slide around and cup her cheeks as she pulls open the dresser drawer and rummages blindly. He sucks in a shaky breath as she slowly, teasingly slides the thin latex over his hard length, unable to resist the temptation to play with her power over him. His eyes on hers tells her he knows exactly what she is doing and she is not surprised to find him grinning as much as she. She leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, bearing her weight on her arms as she positions herself over him.

The brief smile is gone from his face when she leans back, his face a frown of concentration as she slowly slides her slick heat along the length of him, sighing at the feel of him pressing against that sensitive spot. Her name is a groan on his lips, "Allison…"

She reaches a hand down to guide him to her hot, wet entrance, holding him in place as she slowly lowers herself. She hears his breath catch as she slides him carefully, slowly into her, a low moan of pleasure as he sheathes himself in her tight heat. She takes all of him in, biting her lip as she settles down onto him, his hot length filling her completely. For a moment they are still, breathing heavily as they process sensation, struggle for control. She begins to move slowly, sliding herself along his length, rubbing herself against him, feeling the pressure beginning to build. He is moving in tandem with her, his hips matching her rhythm, rocking with her as she moves astride him. His hands grip her hips, tensing in pleasure and anticipation, holding her firmly to him.

The tempo increases quickly, sensation sweeping them up and carrying them along and she takes a moment to gasp out, "I'm not going to last long!" The feeling is intense; he is hard inside her, filling her, pulsing against her inner walls. Her breath comes in short gasps, sweat trickling between her breasts as she moves desperately over him.

* * *

His head is pushed back against the pillow, his eyes fixed on her as she rides him furiously, her hair loose and tangled, her face tight with anticipation. She is glorious, wild and abandoned – everything he swore he didn't want, didn't need. He has forgotten his leg, forgotten work, forgotten his misgivings and fears. All that matters is this moment, right now. He fights for control but she feels so amazing, so hot and tight around him, squeezing him as she rocks back and forth and he can't hold on, can't do this..

He moves a hand up to her breast, his fingers playing with her nipple as his other hand moves lower, stroking across her belly, sliding between their sweat-slicked bodies to slip between her wet folds, to brush across that delicate, sensitive nub.

"Oh god." Her voice is high and breathy and the mere sound of it nearly makes him lose his control. He grits his teeth and slides that one finger in and out, rubbing gently across her slick button even as she slides along the length of him. Her breathing quickens, panting with need and he knows she is near. She cries out, rubbing herself at once against his hand and his cock, and he has never wanted anything so much as he wants to see her come.

A moment later and he has his wish as she stiffens atop him, her muscles tensing and trembling as she shudders with her climax, his name on her lips. Her muscles clench and squeeze around his length, ripping away the last vestiges of his control and with three short strokes he is coming, flooding into her, his back arching as he buries himself in her so deep he never wants to let go.

There is no pain, no fear, only sensation. The very absence of pain is, in itself, a sweet pleasure.

She is careful even in the moment of her climax, bearing her weight on shaky arms as she slowly lowers herself onto him, making sure not to jar his leg as she collapses across his heaving chest, her small breasts pressed against him, her breathing uneven. She kisses him softly, a smile on her lips, and instinctively, absurdly, he finds himself smiling in return. For a moment they lie still, just breathing, just feeling. She disentangles from him gently, carefully, and for a moment he can't decide whether to appreciate her consideration or to be annoyed at her treating him as though he were fragile. When she lays down beside him and wraps herself around his lethargic body, he decides that this is a question better left for tomorrow.

There will be a lot of questions tomorrow, a lot of decisions to be made, and a part of him quails at the thought of change, of the necessity of dealing with the repercussions of their actions. But right now, at this very moment, he cannot bring himself to care too much about repercussions. She is warm and soft against the length of his body, her hair spilling across his chest, her breathing slowly evening out as she runs a drowsy thumb across his collarbone.

He lies still in the darkness, revelling in the warmth of the afterglow, in the brief freedom from pain and tension, and decides that tomorrow can wait.

* * *

_TBC..._


End file.
